Like millions of others I always dreamed of being a writer. But, you know what it’s like, life got in the way and, before I could realise my dream, I had a living to make and a wife and family to support. Still, throughout my many incarnations as a ‘working man’, I kept my aspirations alive in the form of poetry and stories, capturing all the major incidents in my life in verse or prose. One day, I promised myself, one day I would have the luxury of being able to concentrate on my writing and nothing else.
That day came when I turned 60. The kids, fed, watered, educated and thoroughly loved, were grown up and scattered to the four winds. I hung up my decorator’s paintbrush for the last time and Mary, my beloved wife and I, took the thread of our own lives out of storage, dusted it off, and embarked on a whole new phase of life, which pretty much took us around the world. Out came the suitcases and sun tan lotion but, just as important, out came the pen and paper and our travels in India inspired me with the storyline for Distant Horizons, my first novel. The writing bug had well and truly bitten. Next came a memoire of my life growing up in the East End of London – Angels and Dirty Faces, hot on the heels of which came Indiana Bones, a travelogue of the six years we spent living in ‘real’ India, the filthy, exciting, exotic, unforgettable side the travel brochures never show you.
And now, I’m almost finished my fourth book, Dark Horizons, the follow-up to Distant Horizons and loving every second. So, who says you’re over the hill at 60? Not me. As far as I’m concerned life just keeps on getting better and better. And you can have that in writing!